


saviors are fiction

by finalizer



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: 3+1 Things, Angst, M/M, why can't anyone in space be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9627740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: Three times Galen Erso knew just what to do, and the one time it was too late to come up with a solution.





	

**Author's Note:**

> legit i've had this idea in my head since the day i saw the movie sorry for the delay
> 
> canon-set scenes based heavily on catalyst and the r1 novelization

The beginning was quite simple, really. As all things, it began when they were young, and thus too naive to comprehend that it was the start of something horrible. Interwoven through years and years, masqueraded as a bond transcending both time and hardship, whatever gripped them together rotted right before their noses, undetected. 

Of course, it took a few hits before the brittle glass shattered completely.

 

/ 1 /

The party was soaked through with alcohol, despite the heavy restrictions the chancellor applied around the campus. Still, nearly every cadet had managed to sneak in their own bottles of exotically colored intoxicant one way or another. 

Orson was no exception, though he was far past the point of draining his own liquor, and was now thoroughly drunk on at least four brands of interplanetary whiskey. Galen merely watched. He’d never been interested in drinking himself sick, to the point where he couldn’t recall a single moment of the night before the next morning. For Orson, it seemed to be a temporary release from the stress of the Program. Well, everyone had their vices.

And one of Orson’s was, regrettably — drunken brawls.

Galen pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against with his drink. He’d hardly sipped it; he wasn’t too keen on finding out what a potential prankster had added to it. He set the glass down on a table he passed, walking straight towards the source of increasingly agitated shouts. There was a nasty fight going down, regardless of the early hour, and Galen was willing to bet all the credits he had to his name that Orson was someplace near the center of it all. It was a simple statistical deduction: _shit goes down — Orson is the one to have pushed the final button_.

As expected, the boy in question was flat on his back on one of the tables, bleeding heavily from a no doubt broken nose. Galen glanced between the attackers, evaluating that Orson had pissed off at least four other guys, all bigger and less inebriated than him — in short, he stood no chance. Yet Orson was laughing, grinning through the bright red staining his teeth, goading them on.

Galen didn’t want to step in in fear of losing a vital body part, but very well knew he couldn’t stand by and watch Orson get pummeled to near death and land in the infirmary again. The medics were surely thoroughly done with patching up his bruises and split lips.

Instead, he waited off on the sidelines until Orson took notice of his disapproving glare. If all else failed, Galen prided himself on having a cooling effect on Orson’s antics. Withholding sex was one of a plethora of tricks up his sleeve, and Orson was putty in his hands every damn time.

“Fancy seeing you here, Galen,” came the sing-song voice. Predictably enough, the group of would-be attackers turned to the recipient of Orson’s greeting. “What brings you to this side of the dance floor?”

“You’re dripping blood on it.”

Orson made a face, waving it off. “Hardly a problem maintenance can’t fix.”

Galen set his jaw, trembling hands slipping into his pockets to steady himself, keep his posture relatively upright and seemingly unafraid. People like these could smell fear when reduced to their primal instincts, like animals. Then, he addressed them:

“Gentlemen, I’m sure what my friend here has done was atrocious at the least — I speak as someone who’s had plenty experience with his intoxicated persona. Could we — could _you_ , perhaps, reconsider his demise? Reschedule for another time and day? I apologize for his behavior, and solemnly promise it will not happen again on my watch.”

Not exactly the most _hip_ way of concluding business, Galen had to admit, but effective enough to shock the boys into stunned silence. His own intelligence was on a strictly above-average level, and tragically enough, Orson was the only person around who seemed to not only tolerate but enjoy his dry wit. And his dick, but that was entirely beside the point at the moment.

“Who do you think you are?” one of them slurred, eventually. “Huh? A teacher? You think you’re better?”

Orson was watching the exchange with sparkling eyes, and an intensity that bordered on insanity. He was enjoying the verbal sparring, waiting in anticipation for what Galen would say to rescue him, his damsel in distress. That, or he was too fucking wasted to see clearly.

“I’m not here to fight,” Galen said. His voice didn’t shake nearly as much as his hands. “I’m gonna take this idiot back to his room, and make sure he gets some sleep. Can we leave it at that?”

“Not your call to make. Fuck off.”

Orson snorted. “Yeah, Galen. Fuck off. Watch ‘em tear me a new one.”

The situation was palpably diffusing: both parties losing the jolt of adrenaline urging them to engage, to split each other’s skulls in half. Galen tended to have that effect on social interaction — a dampener, rather than a catalyst. Orson was the opposite.

“Oh, come on boys,” he teased, as pathetic as he could possibly sound. “Don’t listen to him. Hit me. C’mon. Hit me.”

For good measure, he stuck his tongue out, wagging it at one of the looming hooligans in a final attempt at getting his ass handed to him. Why he did it, Galen couldn’t fathom — a sick desire for the rush a fight gave him, some masochistic disposition he couldn’t quite shake, couldn’t contain to the bedroom.

Of course, it dissuaded the attackers far more fruitfully than Galen’s diplomatic approach. They dispersed, not too keen on hitting the physical equivalent of a five year old trapped in a young adult’s body, the gang leader kicking the leg of the table Orson was sprawled on for the sheer purpose of damaging _something_ at all. 

In his inebriated state, with no sense of balance, Orson toppled over the other side, landing in a sad heap on the cold ground. He groaned out a broken laugh, gingerly wrapping his right arm around his ribs. His opponents had evidently gotten a punch in before Galen had intervened; the bloody nose was an additional piece of compelling evidence.

“It’s like you want to bleed to death,” Galen sighed, sticking out a hand to offer assistance. Orson could hardly sit up, let alone stand of his own volition.

“We all have to die somehow,” came the cynical answer.

Galen looked to the heavens, praying for inhuman patience to counter Orson’s babbling.

“Make a mark first. Leave a legacy,” Galen suggested, “if you need to go out with a bang. At least you’ll die fulfilled.”

 

 

/ 2 /

The apartment on Coruscant was quiet and spacious. Every sound echoed: the clink of china as Lyra put away the dishes, the clatter of Jyn’s toys as she skipped around the room. It was far from welcoming, due to the circumstances, but it was home. They’d made it their home. Any discrepancies from their simple schedule, however rare, were unexpected. Galen would work late hours, Lyra would take their daughter on walks around the city. They would put Jyn to bed, and they would talk in hushed whispers, attempting to make up for all the lost time. It was all they had, and they made the best of it. It was what it was.

And all the more unusual was the elongated beep of the override notice in the middle of the afternoon, ringing out from the control panel beside the entrance door. The permanent residents of the apartment knew their own code, and never once made a mistake in typing it in. There was only one person Lyra could think of discourteous enough to break in. 

She clicked the screen off on her pad and set it down, straightening on the sofa before the door slid open. 

“Orson,” she greeted, beating him to the first word. Nothing irked her more than formal pleasantries with her husband’s insufferable colleague. 

Krennic, on the other hand, appeared to be in no mood for small talk. The tension  in the set of his shoulders and his gloved fingers balled up at his sides did wonders to enhance the scowl marring his features. He was exhausted, and he was angry.

The door hissed shut behind him.

“Where’s Galen?”

Lyra didn’t take the bait. Her voice was level. “He’s working. You put him to work for two shifts a cycle, if I recall correctly.”

“He’s not in the lab.”

Lyra shrugged. She didn’t bother standing up. Krennic may have been an officer, but he held no jurisdiction over her actions. That, and she had less respect for him than she had for the Imperial troopers blindly following his whims and orders.

“I can offer you no further insight, then,” she assured Krennic, and turned her attention back to her personal research. 

“He’s not in the lab, and he’s not here,” Krennic repeated, stating the obvious. “You’ve had no contact?”

“As I’ve said, no.”

Krennic made no move to leave, instead scanning the general vicinity, as if he thought Galen was hiding behind the overgrown ficus plant beside the dining room window. He was wringing his hands — in nerves or in anger — and Lyra was more unsettled than she’d care to admit.

“He’s on the grounds, of course,” she went on. “He’d notify you if he was leaving. He is permitted some free time, you know.”

Stubbornly, Krennic said nothing. 

“What is it you need from him?” Lyra asked then, genuinely curious. 

It wasn’t a common occurrence for the director of this whole charade to show up in her living quarters, thoroughly uninvited and visibly seething. Something bigger than usual was biting at him, more pressing than the pathetic excuses he typically found to worm his way back into Galen’s life. 

“That is none of your concern,” he growled, irritable.

There was something in the gleam of his eyes, almost a translucent blue in the light, something unsettling. Lyra knew Krennic well enough to assume he was on the verge of snapping, toppling over the edge and descending into a full-blown meltdown. He’d never strayed from theatrics. She was suddenly very glad Jyn was safely tucked away in her bedroom, and not present to witness the inevitable confrontation. 

“No, please, by all means,” Lyra countered, standing up to accentuate her point, “tell me all about how you barge into my home on a whim, disrupt my afternoon, practically issue out threats — ”

Krennic stepped closer, menacing, until there were mere inches between the two of them. He wasn’t of particularly intimidating stature, but the volatility in his eyes spoke volumes. 

His tone danced the thin line between a warning and an ultimatum.

“This is confidential information. _If I find out Galen has been disclosing top secret research to unauthorized parties, I won't hesitate to_ — ”

“To what?”

The third voice that joined the conversation was cautious; gentle and placating as it posed the question. Neither of them had even spotted Galen entering the apartment.

Krennic rounded on him immediately. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Dinner, with a colleague,” Galen stated. He had an uncanny ability to look Krennic in the eye and put out the fire with simple words, spoken with the utmost confidence. He’d never had patience for Krennic’s hysterics. “Just a few floors down. May I ask what _you’re_ doing _here_? Terrorizing my family?”

Lyra scoffed. “Hardly the sort of thing to call terror,” she elaborated, when Galen fixed her with a pointed look. He failed to find the joke amusing. Lyra raised her hands palms up, surrendering, and sitting back down to focus on her work. It was no use getting in between the two of them — it was the sort of ageless relationship that became more and more impenetrable with time, however toxic.

Krennic wasted no time, none too gently grabbing Galen by the arm, dragging him off to the kitchen, where there was no chance of Lyra overhearing the dire conversation. It was an obvious display of the power he had over them, and the underlying ever-present hint of Krennic simply wanting Galen all to himself. Lyra wasn’t stupid; that much she noticed.

“You’re stalling the work,” Krennic hissed, the moment they were out of earshot. It wasn’t phrased as a question.

Galen frowned, tilting his head.

“Don’t look at me like that, Galen,” he spat. “Don’t play me. You’re an awful liar.”

“I — I don’t know what you want me to say, Orson. The work is proceeding as planned.”

“ _Don’t fucking lie to me._ ”

“Listen,” Galen interjected, before irreversible damage was done. He wrapped both hands around Krennic’s biceps, squeezing his fingers into the pressed uniform hard enough to bruise the skin beneath it. “I know you’re working under pressure. We all are. You need results, you need to deliver — as do I. I’m doing everything I can, but this kind of research requires meticulous attention. You know that. There’s no way around it, no way to make it go faster. I promise — I’m doing everything in my power to complete this. Why would I need to lie to you? I’m shit at it regardless.”

The fight faded from Krennic’s stance, from the fire in his eyes. 

Galen knew that was all it ever took — calming reassurance, a spot of physical contact to ground him, a light joke to bring back ancient memories. And if all else failed — make it personal: _I_ need, _you_ need, _we_ , this is all about _us_. Galen wasn’t the best of liars, but he knew Krennic’s desires well enough to rearrange any situation to his own favor. Not quite manipulation if Krennic allowed it to happen so easily.

“Do the work, Galen,” came the reply, quieter than his previous outburst, almost resigned. “My superiors are demanding answers.”

“I am — to the best of my ability.”

“And don’t lie to me.”

“I would never,” Galen promised. 

Krennic wondered later, if that in itself had been the first lie he’d fallen for. One of many that would tear them apart from the inside.

 

 

/ 3 /

With time, Galen learned to turn his emotional advantage into the art of manipulation, and from there, it was a short stop before he learned to lie. He lied when asked about the schematics, he lied when asked about the surplus resources, he lied about the exhaust port, and he lied when Krennic waltzed into the lab on Eadu without warning and demanded attention.

“Doctor Erso, _a word_ ,” he snapped, not bothering with greetings. He stuck to Galen’s formal title to keep up appearances, but it did him no good in the end. The scattered scientists and engineers were quite aware that their two superiors had a far richer history behind them — one didn’t get a doctorate for being daft, after all. 

Krennic stalked across the room without pausing, staring Galen down as he headed for the side corridor leading out of the main facility and towards the individual private quarters.

Galen balled his hands into fists atop the counter, creasing spreadsheets of calculations, and exhaled heavily through his teeth before following Krennic out. The last thing he needed was for the Director to take his agitation out on his underlings: men for whom Galen felt almost paternally responsible. They had no idea what he was planning, as they blindly fulfilled the wishes of the Empire. They were all awful people doing awful work, but the least Galen could do was see his revenge out to the end on his own terms.

The durasteel latch hissed shut behind them, as Galen stepped into the narrow corridor where Krennic was waiting.

With no preamble, he started rambling. “The Emperor wants more and more. He wants the weapon finished _now_ , he wants everything _right now_ , but the damn man won’t grace me with an audience. How do I explain to him — how do I explain anything if he won’t let me talk to him?”

Galen deflected. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Bad time to change the topic.”

“You’re dead on your feet, Orson.” 

Krennic wasn’t having any of it. “I sleep a perfectly adequate amount for someone with this amount of responsibilities on my head. The exhaustion you see is not from lack of sleep, but from lack of _answers_.”

Galen stepped closer, maneuvering and cornering Krennic against the door. One accidental click of the control panel, and their ambiguous proximity would be in plain view of the entire research team. 

“I send you daily updates. Every day, a detailed report. I stay up past curfew to get those together. You’re getting as much as I can possibly give.”

Krennic hummed. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. He needed to give his superiors something that would keep them from breathing down his neck all hours of every day; something that would placate Tarkin’s ambitions, and possibly impress the Emperor himself.

“Not to sound boring,” Galen offered, “but you need to relax.”

Krennic barked out a strangled laugh. “Anything particular in mind?”

His voice was bored, but it was just that that made it all the more suggestive. Krennic tried so hard not to come on too strong, to reign his desperation in to a minimum, but Galen knew all too well that there were no limits to know much Krennic _wanted_ him.

“Stay in my quarters tonight. You can report back to base tomorrow. Say the atmospheric conditions were too rough to depart.”

“The weather’s always shit here,” Krennic mused, though his tone implied he was seriously considering the proposition.

“But the room’s warm,” Galen countered. “And there’s a bed with no distractions. And you can sleep.”

They were close enough to feel the heat radiating off each other’s bodies, crackling with a familiar electric tension. Galen dropped his eyes to Krennic’s lips for a split second, knowing the gesture wouldn't go unnoticed. It was all part of the ploy — subliminally convincing Krennic that Galen wanted this as much as he did.

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

Galen moved, ghosting forward and pressing his lips to Krennic, light and teasing. He was selling himself out, he was keeping Krennic blind through soft words and teeth on skin. He was exacting his revenge in the only way he knew how.

He pulled back, though the space between them was virtually nonexistent. “Alright,” he agreed, “no sleeping. Come on and show me what you’d like to do instead.” 

With that he withdrew, leaving Krennic pressed up against the door, futilely reaching out to grasp a long-gone Galen. Wind him up and watch him go — all Galen had to do was offer a treat and Krennic would forget the barrage of responsibilities hanging over him and pursue the prize.

Galen was the prize, and he hated that. He cursed the day he’d met Orson, however blissful it’d been at the time. However pure the relationship had been, it’d long since turned into a acidic push and pull, both sides lying through their teeth as a means to an end. 

The only concern seeping through Galen’s hatred was the undeniable fact that Krennic’s devotion was far too _real_ for his own good, and some dark, microscopic part of Galen that still cared was worried he would hurt him. But Krennic deserved to hurt. He’d use what Galen offered. It would be his own undoing.

Though, really, that was precisely what Galen was counting on.

 

/ 4 / 

When the bombs dropped, it was too late to undo anything. It was past the time for going back on his words, on his actions, on his damn foolishness. 

Krennic coughed, the simple movement wracking his entire ribcage with unbelievable pain. His lungs wouldn’t quite cooperate, and the ringing was making his head spin. There were muffled shouts, alarms blaring, heavy footsteps, as fighters zipped past overhead, raining fire. It took him another moment to register that the murky ash swimming before his eyes wasn’t a figment of his concussed mind, rather the remnants of a blast.

He was on the ground, cold and wet with rainwater. He was alive. They’d been bombed, but he was alive. 

He couldn't see Galen.

Before he could act on some visceral impulse that was shouting at him to _go, go find Galen, make sure he’s safe_ , someone wrapped an armored hand around his arm, pulling him up.

“ _Director, we have to evacuate._ ”

A voice Krennic couldn’t care less to place cut through the chaos, strict and definitive. He allowed himself to be led away, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. His hands trembled, his head spun, as he struggled to remain upright. Had it not been for the vice grip of his troopers, he was certain he’d collapse, and remain there on Eadu, amongst the sputtering fires and collapsing structures.

Without warning, his thoughts snapped back to Galen. An agonizing ache twisted his heart, awakening an irrational drive, burning like a furnace, giving him purpose.

He nearly tripped on the low step leading aboard his shuttle, catching himself just in time. His guards must have deemed him stable enough to walk on his own, and just like that, he was alone. The ground was increasingly solid beneath his boots, the dark spots in his line of vision receding to the corners.

He braced himself, and turned around, back to face the grotesque war zone that’d become of his facility. He knew the damage was irreparable, that it was over. In truth, he’d known it was over from the moment Galen had stepped in front of the firing squad, pleading for Krennic to spare the others. It’d been the proverbial last straw, unveiling once and for all where Galen’s loyalties lay. There was no saving the string that snapped, that’d once held them together. The bombs only finalized the contract.

Still, he cared. He cursed himself for that one fucking shred of weakness he could never shake.

Unsteady on his feet, Krennic scanned the area — for something, _anything_ , that would give him an answer. 

Bodies littered the ground, charred and severed. Those still breathing ran for shelter, screamed and shouted for backup, giving orders they were not authorized to give. Krennic was too far gone to care, to correct them for overstepping their bounds.

There was only one form his eyes focused on: broken, in the center of the clearing. He wanted to go, he _had_ to go see for himself, make sure Galen was breathing, that he was alive, that he would make it. For a moment, Krennic thought he could use what was left of his strength to drag Galen with him, on board and far away.

A strangled shout from the cockpit of his shuttle was all it took for Krennic’s resolve to strengthen, melding from wavering to unbreakable. The pilot was giving the last warning, and Krennic had every intention of being aboard the shuttle when it evacuated to safety. 

The choice became clear: it was too late for Galen. It was too late to save him; too late for Krennic to convince himself Galen had a single scrap of affection left for him in his traitorous heart.

With a final glance, he stepped inside the shuttle, and promptly blacked out.

 

/

 

It wasn’t until his lungs stopped working properly again that he awoke, immediately twisting to the side and coughing up the ashes he’d inhaled after the blast. Everything smelled of smoke, as though everything was still burning.

He was in a seat, strapped in, blinking rapidly to clear his mind, ease his burning eyes into the blinding brightness of the shuttle lights.

“The rebels,” he asked, “an assassination attempt?”

The questions were remarkably self-explanatory, but he inquired anyway, hardly listening as his aide confirmed the events. Krennic exhaled roughly, throat raw. He was alive. He was relatively in one piece. The same could not be said, however, for —

“Galen Erso?” he demanded. He hoped his voice didn’t shake as much as his hands did.

The aide paused. “He didn’t survive the attack, sir.”

The bombs may have splintered the glass, struck it hard enough to etch spiderweb incisions across the surface, but it was those words that smashed it completely. Something pure and beautiful, slowly deteriorating towards its inevitable, utter destruction.

Krennic felt suddenly nauseous — the smell of ashes was overpowering — and he undid the straps holding him down with frantic fingers and leaned to the side, retching. His chest heaving with the force of it, knuckles white as he gripped his seat, he was certain he would throw up, that the bile and dust in his throat would force their way out. 

But they didn’t. They remained locked away, forever constrained, as he sputtered and coughed out whatever his lungs yearned to dispose of. 

Someone was talking —his aide, he assumed — stammering out nervous explanations, insisting that it was all aftershocks of the explosion, that Krennic had taken a serious blow, that it would recede in a matter of time. It didn’t make him feel any better. 

It wasn't the damned explosion bringing him to his knees. It wasn’t the smudges on his crystalline uniform, the soot and fire, or the taste of blood in his mouth. It was the image seared into his memory: a broken body near mangled amidst the debris, hardly twitching with its last breaths.

Krennic had left Galen to die. 

Galen was dead, and Krennic had gotten the ultimate revenge. It wasn’t until then that he realized revenge was the furthest thing from what he truly desired. The thought made him sick, brought on another coughing fit. Pained tears pricked the corners of his eyes, coming up in sync with heaving breaths.

He hadn’t wanted vengeance. He’d wanted reconciliation. He’d wanted Galen to return to his side, fully agreeable, completely loyal, utterly _his_. All he’d ever fucking wanted was for Galen to _love_ him, to reciprocate the unconditional affection Krennic had offered. 

He dragged his gloved hands over his face, drawing in a hoarse sigh. Maybe it was for the best — maybe not: perhaps he should have gone back for Galen. The nausea refused to fade. His skull burned with the throbbing ache of the concussion, with the excruciating questions pricking his mind. Maybe what Galen had done was too much for Krennic to forgive. Maybe he should have tried a different approach. Maybe he shouldn’t have —

Silence washed over, halting his thoughts before they formed. 

It was too late now, to consider an alternative. There was no time, no possibility, to go back on thirty years of disagreements, of harsh words and blatant cruelty. Galen Erso was dead, and Krennic was done trying to think of ways to realign their stars. 

It burned, and it tore him apart from the inside, but he suppressed every single emotion he was feeling right then, and locked them away within an impenetrable recess of his being, and threw away the key. It was the end of the book, the last page of a story it’d taken his entire life to write, and it took every ounce of his will not to scream as he chose to forget. 

He tuned back in to reality. His aide was saying something, informing Krennic of a change of plans. It was the first page of the next chapter, the first paragraphs he would write without Galen there to co-author the sentences.

Krennic cleared his throat, set his jaw. He had nothing left to lose.

“Set a course.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tweet tweet](http://twitter.com/finaIizer)
> 
> [now with some BEAUTIFUL art by s-lime](https://twitter.com/Schaloime/status/841674010660331522)


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